Nancy Lewis

Jennie Kenline was my dad’s great aunt. Our family was the only family she had, as far as I knew. I don’t remember how old I was when I first met her. Fairly young I’d say. As long as I knew her, until she moved in with my parents the last year of her life, she lived in Paradise, California. A lovely small town, then, in the mountains where the air smelled fresh and of pine trees. She owned a small house that was divided into two living areas. The smaller part was rented to another elderly woman named Katherine. They would communicate through a ‘window’ with a sliding hatch. I loved visiting Aunt Jennie. It was so peaceful and calm. She had no neighbors that could be seen because of all the tall trees. She had a screened in little summer house (really just a long rectangular building with half walls and half screening on all sides-some old furniture covered in bedspreads and sheets) where I would spend endless days enjoying cool breezes and reading endless stacks of very old Readers Digest issues. I slept out there, too. Since we only visited in the summer, the nights were cool, but not cold. Things smelled a bit dusty, but it was a friendly sort of smell. No one else ever spent time there, so it was my special place. Every evening about 5:00 Aunt Jennie would step out to her graveled driveway, set back in the trees away from the road, and call her cats. She had a special call for them and they listened. They were feral cats that she felt sorry for and would set out food every night. She was the only one they would come near. When she called them it would take a few minutes before you would see them cautiously peeking out of the woods. Looking for danger. Making sure no one else was around. I would be watching out the screen of the summer house as she called, so entranced to watch each cat come to eat. There were a couple of dozen. All colors and sizes. I felt such love for this small, hunched old lady who didn’t have much, but she was happy to care for animals without a home. Her stove had a jar into which went every bit of grease left over from cooking. This was then added to whatever kind of gravy she was adding to the meal. I didn’t like gravy at the time, but everyone else absolutely loved her gravy. Though I’m willing to bet that they were a bit anxious about how old the contents of that jar were. Aunt Jennie was sweet, kind and cheerful. Whenever something tickled, annoyed, or made her anxious, she would a “a ditty’s sake, a ditty’s sake” a number of times. Things changed rapidly in Paradise during the ‘70s. A lot of development, vacation homes and increasing population began to change the entire feel of the town. A town that used to completely shut down at 6 pm each night. I got married and moved away, only seeing her once more before she passed away. My parents had her move in with them, she was 98 after all; but I think she was ashamed of being dependent on someone else. Having to leave her trees, cats and home to live in the city (suburb of Los Angeles) stole her will to live. I wish now that I’d spent more time with her. Listened to stories of her youth. Let her know more often that she was loved. It would be wonderful to know if anyone out there also has memories of her.